


You Wish

by Kbrick



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aloof Draco Malfoy, Bathrooms, Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy Friendship, Lust, M/M, New Year's Eve, POV Second Person, Pining Harry Potter, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 18:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kbrick/pseuds/Kbrick
Summary: All of Harry's friends are friends with Draco Malfoy, but Draco won't give Harry the time of day. Which is fine. It totally doesn't hurt Harry's feelings, no, not at all, and anyway, Draco's probably still an arsehole. A beautiful, sexy arsehole Harry would like to shag. Like, a LOT.Perhaps he'll get his opportunity on New Year's Eve.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 107





	You Wish

He never speaks to you. He speaks to everyone else, seems frighteningly comfortable with even Ron and Hermione, but he acts like you don’t exist.

“How’s your summer been?” you work up the nerve to ask him at the barbeque in Luna’s backyard. Your dark hair is broiling underneath the summer sun, and you can feel a bead of sweat trickle down the back of your neck. You’re certain you look like you’re melting. _He_ looks perfect and entirely unruffled, like he’s sitting in an airconditioned room.

“Oh, the usual,” he says, his gray eyes darting to the left of your face, the sun making his pale eyelashes glow. He sees someone and waves. “Excuse me,” he says, and leaves.

Later, you see him laughing hysterically with Neville, and you wonder when it was that Neville forgave him, because you remember when Neville thought he should’ve been sent to Azkaban. You wonder why everyone loves him when he used to be such a fucking arsehole, and then you wonder why he hasn’t tried to get _you_ to forgive him. Not that you would, necessarily. He’s a son of a bitch, a cocky cockhead who has somehow tricked everyone into being his friend.

But you _might_ forgive him, though. If he wanted you to.

“Did you listen to the Falcons game yesterday?” you ask him in the kitchen of the house Pansy shares with Blaise and Daphne. Pansy is your friend now, and she’s his best friend, but he still hates you. You’ve been trying to think of something to say to him for the last half hour, and now here you are, alone with him in the kitchen, and this is the best you’ve managed to come up with.

“No. Don’t listen to Quidditch much anymore,” he says, pushing the white-blonde hair from his forehead. He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt today and he looks so good it should be illegal. You wonder what he’d do if you told him he was under arrest for being too sexy. If you literally cuffed him right now. You try not to giggle out loud; Merlin, your brain is a fucking liability. You should be arresting _yourself_ for being such a git.

“You want another?” he says, going to the refrigerator and pulling two bottles of beer out.

“Yes,” you say, thinking this is probably the most he’s said to you since Hogwarts, when you were screaming at one another to fuck off and die several times a day. “Yes, please.”

He hands it to you, and even clinks his bottle with yours and says “Cheers”. He looks you directly in the eye for once, instead of looking off into the ether, like he usually does when forced to talk to you, and the zap of his gaze goes straight to your cock.

“Cheers,” you squeak.

He grins and wanders off into the other room, leaving you with a throbbing boner and a red face.

“Have a nice Christmas?” you ask him when you’re sozzled enough to think it’s a good idea. You’re at Ron and Hermione’s New Years Eve party, and of course they’ve invited him. He and Hermione are such good friends now that it makes you want to punch a puppy. Not that you would ever hurt a puppy in real life. You like puppies, so much. They’re adorable, and you’ve been thinking about getting one for months. But still, it makes you so mad.

“Yeah, it was grand,” he says. He’s wearing a gauzy, silver shirt that should look ridiculous on him but doesn't. It’s patently absurd, but god, you’d like to touch it. “How was yours?”

“Er, mine?” you say, because you are a fucking turd.

“No, I was talking to the houseplant,” he says, smirking.

You’d love to wipe that smirk off his face. Punch it off, maybe, or lick it. “You’re so funny I forgot to laugh,” you say, because once again, you’re a fucking turd and you say things that nobody over the age of twelve should say. “Christmas was fine. Spent it at the Burrow.”

“Hermione told me,” he says, and of course she did, because they’re up each other’s arses. He looks at you for a moment, his gray eyes appraising. You wonder if you have cheese dip on your face and try to subtly rub at your mouth. “Anything else, Potter?” he asks.

“Um,” you say. “No?”

“Right, well.”

“I know, I know. You have to go talk to somebody, right? Or you want to check out the dessert table, or do literally anything else but stand here and talk to me.”

He looks at you strangely. “I asked you if there was anything else, didn’t I?”

You want to take him by his stupid silver shirt and shake him until his eyeballs pop out. Or, alternatively, shove him up against a wall and devour his face. “Well,” you say, and even as you're saying it, a voice in the back of your head is shrieking that it's time to shut it down -- ABORT, ABORT!! it screams. But you ignore the voice, because you recognize it as the voice of common sense, and you always ignore that one. “Maybe there _is_ something else.”

You should’ve talked to him before inhaling the last couple of glasses of champagne, probably. This will not end well.

“Okay,” he says, wary. He even takes a step backwards.

“Maybe I have another question for you,” you say.

“Alright,” he says, and raises an elegant, blonde eyebrow. Fuck, he is so hot when he does that. Nobody’s eyebrows should have that sort of power over another person. It’s not right.

You realize, then, that you didn’t really have a question, that you’re just talking and talking without thinking, like usual. But maybe you can make one up. _Think, think, think, for the love of all that is holy, just think of one fucking question!_ you scream at your idiot brain. “Where will you be at midnight?” you ask, and then you hear the question echo mercilessly in the recesses of your mind. Because you asked that. You asked that out loud.

Oh, Jesus Merlin and Godric, what have you done?!

He smiles, slow and dangerous, and you nearly come in your jeans. “I assume I’ll be here. Hermione didn’t say anything about the party ending at eleven.”

“I plan to be in the powder room at the top of the stairs. Alone. With the door unlocked,” you say, hardly breathing.

“Oh?” he says. He takes a step closer and licks his lips with the tip of his pink tongue. “Interesting.” He looks at you again, that intense, cool gaze ripping you apart at the seams, unravelling you. He steps back after a moment. “I’ll see you at midnight, then, Potter,” he says, and then you lose sight of him in the crowded family room.

You lean back against the wall, thinking you have died and gone to heaven, or possibly hell, but whichever place you’re in, it’s really, really hot, and you need an ice pack.

So probably hell, then.

The minutes tick by with unbearable slowness. You drown yourself in whiskey and champagne. You go outside into the freezing cold air to cool off your heated blood and consider just picking a direction and running until you collapse.

You wouldn’t, though. You're almost certain he won't show, and that he'll probably laugh at you as you walk out of the powder room at 12:05 by yourself, but on the off chance that he does…if he does…

There’s no way in hell you’re not going to be there. If there’s even the tiniest, most microscopic chance of this happening...there’s no way you won't go.

“What the fuck is wrong with you tonight?” Ron asks, looking at you with a fascinated, slightly terrified expression. “You are acting _so_ weird.”

“It’s the champagne’s fault!” you declare, and he shakes his head.

“Harry, calm _down_ ,” Hermione says later, because you’re sort of jumping from foot to foot, but you can’t help it. There are lightening bolts hurtling through your limbs.

Finally – fucking _finally_ – it is ten to midnight. You discreetly slip upstairs and step into the powder room. It’s decked out in cartoonish pictures of fish, not really very romantic, but. You will work with your limited resources. If he shows up (he won’t show up, he won’t show up, your brain chants), maybe you’ll have the light off anyway.

You look at your watch and see you have six minutes. Oh, Merlin. Fuuuuuuuuuck this plan. This was the worst plan. Even if he does show up, you’ll be lying dead in a heap on the bathroom rug, because you’ll have had a stroke.

You suddenly remember that you ate a lot of cheese dip. You rummage through the drawers with shaking fingers and find a tube of toothpaste and rub the toothpaste all over your teeth and your tongue. Then you stick your mouth under the tap and swish it around and spit it out. Then you remember you have a cock and balls and an arsehole attached to your adrenaline-soaked body and you’ve been running around like a crazy person all night, sweating. You cast quick cleaning charms on everything and pray it is enough. Goddamnit. Goddamnit!

It’s three minutes to midnight. Two.

He’s not coming. He’s not, and you’re so stupid.

You lean against the sink and try not to cry. Honestly, fuck him. He’s an arsehole, and all your friends are wrong. He’s not changed. He’s just gotten _sneakier_ about being an arsehole, and this is proof.

One minute.

God, you can’t take it – you can’t! You fling open the bathroom door and stop dead.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, that smirk back in place. You blink at him stupidly. And then he takes a step towards you and says the sexiest, most perfect thing in the universe. “ _Scared_ , Potter?”

You take his stupid silver shirt in your fists and toss him into the powder room and stalk in after him, then slam and lock the door without using your hands or your wand or your words. His eyes widen in surprise and then you lift him by the waist and deposit him on the edge of the sink and step between his legs. You can feel his cock against you, and it is _hard_.

You want to do a dance, because oh my god. Oh my _god!!!_

Instead, you put your hands on his thighs and your mouth next to his ear and say the only thing you can possibly say in this moment. “You. Wish.”

Downstairs, you hear everyone screaming the countdown.

“3…2…1...!!!!”

At the stroke of midnight, your lips meet his.


End file.
